Wayward: Fetching Tales from a Year on the Road

on drowning

 I used to manage a band called The Format. They ceased to exist one year ago today.

I was in Bali, about four weeks into a break that coincided with the band’s writing period (those gaps between records are actually used for developing relationships, writing about them, then fucking them up by leaving for 16 months). The band’s principle songwriters, Nate and Sam, had a method for writing that was frustrating enough to send me packing. For example:

Me: So where are you at with new songs?


Nate: We’ll be ready.

Me: It’s cute that you would think I’m that dumb. Where are you at with the songs?


Nate: We have some stuff.


Me: Songs or parts of songs?
 (pause)


Nate: We know how all of the parts are going to go together. So, songs.


Me: But they’re not songs yet.

Nate: They’re parts of songs that form songs.

Me: I understand.
 (pause)


Me: So, when are you writing the songs?
 (pause)


Nate: We were talking about it while playing Halo last night.

Me: Oh, that’s a relief to hear. At least you’re getting together and talking about it.


Nate: Oh, no. Sam was at his house and I was at mine. We were on headsets during the game.

Me: You’re writing songs with a video game as the conduit?

Nate: Chill out. You’re starting to sound like an old person.

The day in question had already been one of the worst I’d had in years. I had found a boy floating facedown in the hotel pool, pulling him out with another guest and watching as a hapless lifeguard attempted to bring him back to life. I went back to my room after the coroner finally arrived, his mother making noises like those of a person trying to breathe shortly before a fifth round of water boarding. I trembled on the turquoise couch in my air-conditioned room, then found my phone and checked messages, glad for any distraction that they could provide.

A voicemail from Sam. “Dude, you should call me.”

I’ve heard parents talk about the nuances of their babies’ noises and about how they know exactly what each sound means, even if the child has not yet learned to speak. A musician’s manager will also tell you that they can hear these tones from the artists with whom they work, and that “call me” voicemails can go unreturned for at least a few hours if necessary. “You should call me” is very different. It often means that the band’s recording session is a complete disaster, that the artist wants to pull off of a tour or that the van’s rear axle has inexplicably fallen onto the ground. These calls always involve strife, dismay and some kind of cop/caper bailout plan. I was quite sure that Sam would tell me that we were going to push back the making of their third album, which would mangle several months worth of scheduling and preparation. It was an annoyance but an annoyance that I was paid for, nonetheless.

“You’re gonna hate me,” said Sam. I knew it – we were pushing back recording. “Um, no dude. You should sit down.” He would explain to me over the course of the next hour that the band was taking a hiatus, “or something.”

I wasn’t prepared for this. I asked hundreds of questions, in an attempt

to figure out what might be done to put this back together. A manager looks to fix things, because most Total Fucking Freakouts (TFF’s) last exactly 24-36 hours and number 7-10 per year. Yet, as the minutes went by, the conversation felt more like someone soft-selling a breakup (Sam) in an attempt not to hurt the other party (me). He kept trying to make it not sound like a big deal because he knew that aside from all of the things this would do to the band members, it was also going to ruin me. I’d spent the previous two years helping to rebuild The Format’s career, betting that their future success would justify the extraordinary amount of time that managing their scenario entailed. Their breakup was the equivalent of folding my cards with four aces.